


Three Times Dean Winchester Was Not Possessed, This Never Happened, Let Us Never Speak of It Again

by parenthetical



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 Things, Crack Fic, Gen, Humor, mime, shakira - Freefom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-01
Updated: 2006-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:51:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parenthetical/pseuds/parenthetical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam had slowly developed the theory that Dean's amulet protected him from Full-On Evil, but at the price of drawing all kinds of Fucked-Up Weirdness straight to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Times Dean Winchester Was Not Possessed, This Never Happened, Let Us Never Speak of It Again

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my lovely Zooey Glass to congratulate her on winning Nano 2006. No spoilers.

Sam Winchester always felt that the common misconception that his brother just didn't get possessed was rather unfair. True, the really bad shit did seem to bypass him and head straight for Sam, which was something of a bitch. But Sam had slowly developed the theory that Dean's amulet protected him from Full-On Evil, but at the price of drawing all kinds of Fucked-Up Weirdness straight to him. There was just no other explanation for the things that happened to Dean.

Of course, no one knew about those things, because they all got filed immediately under the heading of "Not To Be Discussed Ever Again Under Any Circumstances, I'm Not Even Fucking Kidding Here, Sammy, This Never Happened, Got That?".

Still, Sam did have some truly awesome photographic evidence if he ever decided he really needed to blackmail his brother for some reason.

_One_

When Sam was shaken awake in the middle of the night to find a mime standing over him, he actually screamed.

In retrospect, he should have seen it coming. He and Dean were in the midst of another escalating prank war, and he'd got Dean pretty good in that bar the day before. He'd been expecting Dean to come up with something fiendishly creative, and he'd made a point of checking his bed out very cautiously before going to sleep that night. He should have known that Dean was just waiting until Sam let his guard down.

Still, a mime? Who could be expected to see _that_ coming?

Dean was dressed in a ridiculous black-and-white clown outfit, his face covered in white face-paint, dark crosses marked over his eyes. He was possibly the most surreal thing Sam had ever seen, and considering the nature of their family business, that was saying something.

He was laughing silently at the expression on Sam's face, almost doubled over with the force of it.

"_Jesus_, Dean," Sam said, trying to bring his heart rate back under control. "You complete _asshole_!"

Dean was still laughing, his entire body shaking.

The fact that he was doing so silently was weird, though. Sam somehow doubted it was out of consideration for the people in the motel room next door.

"Your mind is seriously twisted, dude," Sam grumbled, lying back down. "_Twisted_. Fuck off and let me go back to sleep. You are so going down for this one."

Dean had stopped laughing and was now shaking his head wildly.

Sam rolled his eyes and turned onto his side. "I mean it, Dean. Payback can wait until the morning."

Dean moved around so that he was in Sam's line of sight and shook his head again, his expression now mildly panicked. He placed one hand deliberately across his mouth, then the other on top of it, and shook his head again, eyeing Sam meaningfully.

Sam stared. "Dude, what the fuck?"

It was Dean's turn to roll his eyes. He repeated the same actions slowly, placing both hands over his mouth and shaking his head. Then he gestured at his clown outfit and spread his arms in a helpless gesture.

"You have got to be kidding me," Sam said sceptically. "You had your joke, Dean, I screamed like a girl, I get it, okay? This part is totally weak by comparison."

Dean shook his head again and mouthed as if trying to shout, then clapped both hands over his mouth again.

"You're kidding," Sam said. "You are totally not trying to tell me you actually can't talk, Dean."

His brother waved one hand in a _finally_ gesture, and nodded emphatically.

Sam waited a moment for Dean to start laughing, then took a deep breath when he didn't. "You're serious."

Dean rolled his eyes again, but nodded.

Sam slowly sat up again and leaned against the headboard. "Oooooooookay. What the hell happened?"

Dean glared at him meaningfully, but launched into a rapid series of mimes.

Sam stared, openmouthed, and interrupted after a couple of minutes. "Dude, I'm not getting any of this. Start again."

His brother glared harder, but began again, pointing at Sam and then placing both hands at the side of his face, tilting his head slightly and closing his eyes.

"I was asleep," Sam said, guessing aloud. "Or you waited until I was asleep to pull this stunt?"

Dean nodded firmly and continued, miming something very complicated that Sam took as meaning "payback for that prank in the bar the other day, you little bitch". He wrinkled his face in a puzzled expression, then mimed a light bulb going on above his head, then pointed at Sam, at his outfit, and mimed screaming.

"Nice," Sam observed drily.

Dean grinned broadly, then sobered again. He placed one hand above his eyes and peered around the room as if searching for something, then gestured at the outfit again, then pointed at himself and gave a thumbs-up sign. He mimed pulling on clothes, mouthing words soundlessly all the while, then clapped his hands over his mouth again, before spreading his hands helplessly.

"I don't believe this," Sam said, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're being possessed by a _mime outfit_?"

Dean shrugged, looking vaguely embarrassed.

Sam stared at him for a moment longer, and then cracked up.

It turned out that Dean could mime "fuck you" very effectively.

***

"Sounds like..." Sam frowned. "Cake?"

Dean nodded, and gave the "keep going" gesture.

Sam thought about it, then suddenly sat up. "Lake! Spirit Lake? We drove through there a couple of days ago, didn't we? So that's where you bought the outfit?"

Dean gave a relieved-looking nod and sank down into a chair.

"I can't believe we're trying to solve a case using _charades_, man," Sam said, starting to laugh. "This is so fucked up."

The response was a rapid series of mimes amounting to "You're telling _me_?" But Dean's mouth was twitching too, underneath all the make-up.

They had experimented and discovered that Dean was restricted to mimes and gestures. He couldn't write or talk. The most amusing part, from Sam's perspective, was that his brother _had_ to mime a response to a direct question, whether he wanted to or not. Sam wasn't entirely sure whether to be slightly freaked out or hugely amused by his brother's newfound miming skills, but he was taking a fiendish pleasure in asking Dean awkward questions just to see the mimed response. Dean's rendition of "I'm going to the bathroom to take a piss, QUIT ASKING ME FUCKING QUESTIONS, SAMMY" had left Sam in hysterics.

The costume couldn't be removed. The make-up refused to come off, even when they had tried using holy water. They had concluded, after much talking (on Sam's part) and gesturing (on Dean's part), that their only option was to return to where Dean had bought the costume and investigate why it might possibly be possessing him. Of course, that plan was dependent on Dean managing to communicate where that had been.

At least they'd narrowed it down to the town, Sam thought with relief. Dean would be able to point out the shop when they got there. Another round of charades to try to figure out the name of the shop was a bit more than he was feeling able to cope with right then.

"Okay," Sam said, "let's get moving. Gimme the keys."

_Like hell_, Dean mimed.

"Fine," Sam said, grinning. "You can be the one to explain to the police officer who stops us that you're not drunk or anything, you're just possessed. Through the medium of mime."

Dean glared daggers at him, and threw him the keys.

Sam hummed happily all the way to the car.

***

"Feel any more talkative yet?"

The cause had proven to be fairly easy to pinpoint, after all; a mime artist had killed himself in Spirit Lake several years previously, leaving a suicide note complaining about how hard his life was, and how underappreciated mime artists were. The costume Dean had purchased had belonged to him. It had been a simple matter at that point to find the grave, and they were already at the salt-and-burn part of the evening.

Unfortunately, it did not appear to be having any effect.

"Maybe it's the costume that needs to be destroyed," Sam mused aloud. "Though since we can't get it off you, that'd be a bit tricky."

Dean mimed what he'd do to Sam if his brother tried to set his outfit alight while he was still wearing it.

Sam grimaced, then frowned suddenly as an idea struck him. "Hey, Dean. Why don't you try miming salting and burning his bones?"

Dean stared at him as though Sam had gone mad.

Sam shrugged. "Well. It's got to be worth a try, right?"

One eyebrow arched sardonically, but Dean sighed and shrugged and did so, miming opening the container of gasoline and pouring it over the bones, despite the fact that they were already burning merrily, then pretended to shake salt over them, flicked open an imaginary lighter, lit an imaginary twig, and threw it onto the blazing bones.

"- No way in hell this is going to - _hey_!" Dean beamed. "What the _fuck_, dude."

Sam started laughing.

Dean stripped hastily out of the mime outfit and threw it onto the flames, then snagged a bottle of holy water from their supplies and tried washing his face. The make-up came off this time.

They tacitly agreed that Sam had won that prank war. And called a truce. For at least a couple of hundred miles.

 

_ Two _

 

Sam had wondered what the hell was going on when his brother didn't return after an hour. After three hours, Sam figured he must have been kidding about going for a swim and had actually slipped off to the nearest bar. Or possibly the bed of the nearest waitress.

Four hours after Dean had left for a quick dip to cool off, Sam went out to find something to eat. The path led past the motel's swimming pool, and Sam slowed and then stopped at the realisation that someone actually was swimming.

It was Dean, although he looked exhausted and entirely lacking in his usual grace in the water.

"Dean?" Sam called, incredulous. "Have you been out here swimming all this time? It's been hours, dude, I thought you wanted to go grab something to eat?"

"Sam!" Dean gasped, his voice filled with relief. He didn't pause in his swimming; he was currently doing the breast-stroke, talking every time he surfaced. "Sammy, am I glad to see you -" He ducked underwater for another stroke and resurfaced. "You gotta help me, man, I can't stop -" Another stroke. "Think the pool's possessed or something..." He reached the end of the pool and performed a neat underwater turn before resurfacing. "I have to do eight lengths per stroke, and breast-stroke..." Underwater, resurface. "Only one I can talk during. Dude, you gotta help me, I don't know -" Underwater, resurface. "- How much longer I can keep going like this."

If Dean hadn't looked so utterly exhausted, Sam would have thought he was joking. As it was, he called back "I'm going to fetch the laptop," and sprinted for the motel room.

He returned to the pool side with the laptop a few minutes later to find Dean performing the butterfly stroke. Sam knew damn well that Dean had never voluntarily used that stroke in his life; one swimming coach had tried to make him, but Dean had insisted it was like violently drowning yourself, and really there were better ways to go.

That settled it. Dean really was possessed.

Sam rolled his eyes. How the hell did Dean even get himself into these situations?

By the time Dean had completed his lengths using the butterfly stroke, front crawl and back crawl and returned to the relatively communication-friendly breast-stroke, Sam had managed to zip through a lot of research.

"Okay, so you remember when the motel owner said the pool wasn't safe?" Sam asked rhetorically, and waited for Dean to dip underwater and resurface before continuing. "Three people have died here in the past year. All good swimmers, but drowned in the pool." Another pause for Dean to resurface. "The first seems to be the one causing the problem - high school student who hoped to make the swim team, undiagnosed heart problem, pushed himself too hard while practising and died."

"Dude," Dean gasped out, "just tell me you know how to stop it."

"Oh, right," Sam said, and started thinking.

Dean groaned and shifted back to his drowning-not-waving butterfly stroke.

The problem was, the high school kid had been cremated, Sam noted. Which... well, which left the pool itself. Right?

He ended up pouring their entire stock of holy water into the pool water and performing a hasty banishing ritual.

He knew it worked when Dean suddenly went under like a stone in mid-butterfly, choking and spluttering.

Sam hauled him out, and Dean lay on the ground next to the pool, gasping for air.

"You really need to work on your butterfly, man," Sam said eventually. "That was pretty weak."

As it turned out, Dean didn't even have enough energy left to give him the finger.

 

_Three_

Sam had always had a slight terror of the pop star Shakira, ever since he'd seen one of her videos for the first time.

He suspected that non-Winchesters, on seeing one of her videos for the first time, would probably be slack-jawed that any human body could move like that. And then most men would move straight on to thinking "Whoa, hot." Sam, however, was a Winchester, and he reached a different conclusion:

Shakira's breasts were clearly possessed.

Possibly not just her breasts, although the evidence for that was the most clear-cut. He'd watched several of her videos obsessively and finally concluded that no, he was not paranoid, her stomach was possessed as well. Which implied that perhaps her entire body was, and it was just manifested most obviously in those two locations.

Jess had hit him upside the head and told him to stop ogling.

Sam had protested that injustice, but had found it difficult to offer any alternative explanation for his behaviour. He had a feeling Jess wouldn't buy "I think Shakira's breasts are possessed" as an excuse.

Now, however, Sam was feeling completely and utterly vindicated, because whatever kind of thing it was possessing Shakira, the same type of thing had now taken over his brother's body.

The breast-dancing thing didn't work quite as well on Dean, since he didn't really have what could be termed a... (Sam groped - no, searched - for a suitable term) bustline. The stomach thing, though... Jesus. Sam had had no idea his brother could _move_ like that. Or perhaps "writhe" would be a more accurate term.

When Dean had unexpectedly hit the dance floor, Sam had at first assumed that Dean was both very, very drunk and being more of an exhibitionist than usual. Plenty of women, and not a few men, had soon gravitated towards him.

But then a few alarm bells had started ringing in Sam's head, because he was pretty sure that no matter how much his brother had had to drink, he would not be dancing to _Shakira_ if he was in his right mind.

And then Dean had started _writhing_, and Sam had realised he was possessed.

He had come up with a few theories while studying Shakira's videos, back before Jess had finally put her foot down about the whole thing. It had to be some kind of creature that thrived on the attention and the sexual energy it drew from its audience. Possibly some weird kind of Colombian succubus. He'd come up with a cunning plan to bluff his way backstage during a concert and investigate in more detail, but it was around about that point that Jess had put her foot down. Very firmly.

Since he'd been back on the road with Dean, he'd almost forgotten about the possessed pop star. Dean would sooner have died than let Shakira's music be played in his car, no matter how much Sam had suspected Dean would appreciate her brand of dancing.

He'd thought Dean would appreciate watching it. He'd never dreamed he would end up watching Dean dancing that way himself.

Dean leaned unnaturally far back and Sam stared, openmouthed, as his stomach muscles rippled.

Sam took a moment to consider his strategy. Obviously, what he _ought_ to do was figure out a way to free Dean from whatever kind of weird Shakira-related thing was possessing him.

Obviously, what he was _going_ to do was dig the video camera out of their bag at his feet and start recording.

Well, there was always the chance that it could be a ghost instead, after all. And Sam had always believed in being thorough in his research.

Potential blackmail material... Well, that was just a bonus.


End file.
